


The BOOnapartist

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, Halloween, Multi, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently Marius failed to receive the <i>never ever mention Napoleon, let alone dress up like him for Halloween, when in a twenty feet radius of Enjolras</i> memo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The BOOnapartist

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place before "Wedding".

“How do I look?” Courfeyrac’s voice interrupted Jehan’s thought process as he tied a bow at his throat and glanced over his own reflection in the mirror. The poet who, ironically enough, was going as a poet to Combeferre and Joly’s Halloween party wanted to ensure that his costume was absolutely flawless, if a little artistic. With a final adjustment to the bunny ears on his head, he turned to inspect his lover. Courfeyrac was watching him with a tiny glint in his gaze.

“I don’t remember Keats wearing bunny ears, petal," Courfeyrac teased, and Jehan just swatted at the man nonchalantly, his eyes wandering over the other’s half-nude figure.

“Those are merely details.” Jehan tilted his head and hummed, eyebrow raised. “And what are you supposed to be?”

Courfeyrac gasped, mocking sheer hurt, before placing his hands on his hips, careful to avoid moving the saxophone that hung around his neck too much. “I’m a Sexy Sax Man!”

Jehan rolled his eyes, as if to say ‘Of course you are’, before turning to grab the keys to their apartment. Courfeyrac, who held the same excitement for Halloween as most children, was dressed in cut-off shorts and no shirt, his usually wild hair even more pronounced with the curly wig he donned. He completed the outfit with an actual saxophone (Jehan had no idea that he owned the instrument) and a pair of obnoxiously large aviator sunglasses.

Behind him, Courfeyrac made another wounded noise and pressed himself to the smaller man’s back, kissing just below his ear and causing the poet to shudder. “I think you look dashing even though you hate my costume.”

Jehan scoffed before turning to kiss the other man soundly on the lips. “I don’t hate your costume. I actually love it. No one is going to be able to keep their eyes off of you.”

Courfeyrac wiggled his eyebrows and grabbed his lover’s arms, leading them both to the door as Jehan laughed the entire way. He knew that tonight would allow Courfeyrac to be as mischievous as he wanted without much backlash. “Oh, that’s the plan.”

Jehan wasn’t surprised to find only their closest friends gathered around when they entered Joly and Combeferre’s apartment. There was a collective feeling of awkwardness when someone they didn’t know showed up so parties were kept small and comfortable. The first thing the poet noticed was Bahorel, all six and a half feet of him, towering over everyone and nearly naked, wearing a pink tutu with a princess crown. He was chatting loudly with an unusually smug Combeferre who donned a doctor’s coat and scrubs but no shirt, a stethoscope around his neck, his name-tag reading “Doctor Sexy”.

Enjolras sipped punch from the corner, his red shirt and tight jeans seemingly normal if it weren’t for the white powdered wig and miniature guillotine that he held. Jehan found it a strange attempt at Robespierre, but he knew Enjolras didn’t really do these kind of parties. It was obvious he was there as half of a deal. The other half, clad in nothing but a french flag and a beret, was seen smirking from another corner and sipping a beer. Jehan had never seen Grantaire look so satisfied with himself.

Upon entering, the group all beamed and moved to welcome the pair like an incoming tidal wave, and compliments were thrown at them from every direction about their costumes. Feuilly, dressed up ironically as a polish pianist, patted their backs while Joly, who seemed to just be a cat, offered them beers.

Jehan was just getting settled, sipping his drink idly, when Bossuet appeared from the bathroom dressed in something that appeared to be a giant cardboard magnet. Courfeyrac spotted him and saw his opportunity, making a show of acting like his saxophone was giving him a struggle before he stuck himself to Bossuet’s side. Bossuet groaned loudly and rolled his eyes.

“For the fiftieth time, I’m not a magnet! I’m an upside-down horseshoe! You know, like, good luck?”

Courfeyrac didn’t give up his struggle. “Can’t. Get. Away! The force is too strong with this magnet...”

“Asshole.” Bossuet shoved him off and laughed before going over to the drink table.

Courfeyrac was just about to follow him, loudly complaining the entire way, when Marius walked in, trailing a blond behind him.

The room took a shared sharp inhale and froze.

Beside Jehan, Combeferre muttered ‘Oh shit’ beneath his breath, and there was strangled laughter coming from the corner where Grantaire was standing, growing more pronounced as the seconds passed. Enjolras, who was the last to see, nearly dropped his beer onto the carpet, and he fumbled a bit to save it from spilling, the color completely drained from his face.

Apparently Marius, who was the newest of their group members, failed to receive the _never ever mention Napoleon, let alone dress up like him for Halloween, when in a twenty feet radius of Enjolras_ memo.

It was a severely valuable agenda.

Marius, grinning proudly now and taking no notice of the abrupt silence, patted Joly on the back as he passed and introduced the woman beside of him as Cosette. She was wearing a cleverly homemade costume of a Sims character taking a bath, the cardboard surrounding her figure covered in pixelated dots and a green diamond hanging above her head from a small band. Everyone nodded in polite hellos, except Enjolras who was busy looking everywhere but Marius, his hands clenched dangerously tight around the neck of his beer bottle.

Grantaire, pausing between gasps, raised his drink as Marius passed him. “Cheers to the best costume of the night!”

Enjolras glared at his boyfriend darkly and mumbled something about needing to use the restroom. As he stomped away, Marius blinked and looked around like a newborn calf seeing the world for the first time.

“What’s gotten into everybody? This, so far, is the worst party we’ve been to tonight.”

Cosette nudged him and muttered to him not to be rude, but he just shrugged.

Courfeyrac giggled from behind his beer. “It’s like you walked into a room with Harry Potter in it dressed as Voldemort.”

Marius looked down at his costume and then up at the bathroom door before his face blanched. Bossuet, laughing heartily about not being the guy with the worst luck in the room, went over and slapped his back.

“Don’t worry about it, Bonapart. It’s a great costume. Enjolras will get over himself.”

“His thesis was on social and economic Napoleonic tendencies of modern world leaders and how they will be the cause of the end of society as we know it," Jehan chirped from the corner and things fell silent again.

That was until Cosette burst out laughing.

“Well, so what? Enjolras can get over himself. Marius likes Napoleon and that’s his damn business. I think that guy looks fucking ridiculous but I’m not going to lock myself in the bathroom.” She shoved her finger at Courfeyrac, who snorted and took a bow.

“Smart woman.” Grantaire grinned at her before going over and clumsily fighting his way around her boxy costume to peck her cheek. Then, he stumbled his way to the bathroom, attempting to coax Enjolras out of his tile hide-out.

Cosette smiled a bit smugly, and the tension seemed to melt as everyone crowded around her like a giant amoeba trying to suck her. Marius was shoved aside a bit as she became the focus of the room.

Enjolras emerged several minutes later and snatched Grantaire’s beer, resuming his spot in the corner but eying Marius like a hawk. Marius seemed to quiver beneath his gaze and shrunk to a couch with Feuilly, who drunkenly decided that Marius would adore the fan designs he had shoved into his pocket.

 

The party seemed to settle in an intoxicated haze after that, beers being exchanged for too-strongly mixed drinks (Grantaire had found Combeferre and Joly’s vodka stash) and conversations for games. Cosette was currently annihilating the French clad man at Higher and Lower, Grantaire’s eyes crossing a little as he half-heartedly argued that she was cheating, when Courfeyrac felt a warmth at his side. His little poet, who seemed to have disappeared for the last hour, had found him again at last.

Jehan smiled up at him lazily, eyes glazed over, and leaned in to nuzzle at his neck with a slight purr. Courfeyrac shifted his saxophone to make room and wrapped his arms around the other's waist, steadying the smaller man back to stillness as his vision swam. Jehan gave a little snort in between kisses, his voice a near whisper as though he was telling Courfeyrac an incredibly important secret. “I’m a flower who has been watered too much.”

At this, Courfeyrac raised his eyebrow and, with a grin, he turned to brush the hair that had come loose from its tie and now hung around Jehan’s imperceptibly flushed face. The poet’s eyes closed at the sensation.

“Have you, now?” Courfeyrac’s voice was just as low and a little husky from the liquor.

Jehan nodded and blinked his eyes open, kissing right below the half-nude man’s ear, and then he nipped. Hard. Courfeyrac pulled him impossibly closer and gripped at his bottom with one hand, nearly dropping the red cup in his other, and the poet let out a small moan.

“Gross!” Marius’s voice piped up from the corner of the room, and Courfeyrac, who was now smirking dangerously, looked up briefly to find Napoleon shielding his eyes with frantic hands. “You are still in _public_!”

“That’s never stopped them before,” Combeferre muttered from the couch, holding a drunkenly sleepy Joly in his lap as he stroked his bare chest with repetitive movements and mumbled various medical terms about the dangers of drinking too much alcohol.

“Then we won’t be in public. Is your guest room acceptable, ‘Ferre?” Courfeyrac hummed against the poet’s hair, smirking up at his friend. Combeferre chuckled and nodded.

“Of course. Just... clean up.”

Courfeyrac saluted him quickly before tugging Jehan down the hallway and into the quiet guest bedroom stuffed at the back of the hall. Once inside, Courfeyrac planted himself on the bed and pulled his suspenders off of his shoulders, grinning up at the small man before him who began to pull off his layers at an agonizingly slow pace.

After groaning impatiently, Courfeyrac sat and pulled Jehan close by his hips, finishing stripping him at a much faster speed. With the poet exposed completely in front of him, long, slender limbs and porcelain skin, it felt much more like Christmas than Halloween.

Jehan giggled. “What’re you gonna do, sax man?”

“Well, I’m awfully good at blowing...” Courfeyrac whispered, his breath ghosting against the taut skin of Jehan’s abdomen before his mouth ventured lower. At that, the poet let out a breathless whine, shifting up to knees as his fingers combed themselves first through the outrageous wig that the man was wearing and then through his real curls, the wig having fallen somewhere to the side of the bed, forgotten. Courfeyrac smiled slyly at the noise and bit at the curve of the poet’s hip bones, causing him to jerk and fist his hair tighter.

“Courf, _please_.” All of the jokes, the teasing, was forgotten beneath the heat that surged straight through Jehan’s body like an electric shock. He nibbled at his bottom lip to keep in the desperate noises that threatened to escape, knowing all too well that if he expressed how badly he needed this, his lover’s touch, that the man may tease him until he was a sobbing mess. Courfeyrac could sense the longing, the earnest in the tense way that Jehan waited, and he pressed a kiss to other hip bone, his eyes gone suddenly dark.

“Since you asked so politely, my sweet poet.” His voice sounded wrecked even to his own ears, and he pressed one final kiss to the suddenly feverish skin, now blotched with red, before licking the underside of his lover’s cock and taking him into his mouth.

Jehan, whose usual noises were breathless sighs of passion, let out a sharp cry, and he tucked his face into his own shoulder, his knuckles gone white from where one gripped Courfeyrac’s dark curls and the other twisted into the bedsheets. The larger man hummed with delight and took him in further, his mouth deliciously warm and wet, and Jehan eyes rolled back, hips stuttering upwards in messy thrusts.

The pure franticness of their movements, Courfeyrac moaning around Jehan as he fisted his own cock into his palm, matching that of his lover, was enough for them both to know that this was not going to last long, and with a final jerk, Jehan came into the solid heat that engulfed him, shuddering all over and whimpering. Courfeyrac groaned, the noise rumbling deep into his chest, and spent himself all over his thighs and the print of the comforter, pulling from Jehan and panting heavily.

“Courf...” Jehan sighed, slumping over a little so that the other could catch him in a tight embrace and grin into the strawberry blond of his hair. Jehan tucked his own face against Courfeyrac’s bare chest, his voice muffled. “M’love you.”

“And I love you,” Courfeyrac answered simply, completely sated and exhausted and still a little drunk. They were quiet for a moment, Jehan nodding off and Courfeyrac pressing soft kisses into his hairline, when there was abrupt knocking, followed by a very slurred voice that could only belong to Mr. France himself.

“‘Ferre said we could use this bedroom after you guys were done, get out!” There was laughter that followed, higher pitch, and Courfeyrac recognized it as being the one Enjolras possessed when he reached a particularly impressive level of intoxication. Courfeyrac grunted and glanced down at the soiled comforter before shrugging.

“One moment, please.” He scooped Jehan up and helped him to his feet as they redressed each other. Then, he tugged the comforter off the bed and threw it into the corner.

Courfeyrac has barely opened the door when Grantaire and Enjolras literally fell in, landing on the ground with a painful thud. Enjolras’s hand was half-way down Grantaire’s flag-toga, and Grantaire was yanking at Enjolras’s blond hair, his powdered wig discarded on the ground.

Blinking, Courfeyrac burst out laughing. “Well, if that’s not the most patriotic thing I’ve ever seen...”

Jehan giggled behind him and snapped a picture on his phone before bouncing over them with the grace expected from a ballerina and sliding into the room with everyone else.

“Trick or treat?” Grantaire slurred up at Courfeyrac, squinting at him. Courfeyrac smirked and nodded for them to enter.

“Or maybe it’s one of the scariest.” And with that, he left them alone to reenact their own reign of terror, however less violent.

**Author's Note:**

> We are planning on posting a series of vignettes which peek into the life of Jehan and Courfeyrac (mainly) with the rest of the boys thrown into the mix. They will consist of little snippets about various things that tickle our fancy!
> 
> Along with reading our series, feel free to follow both of us on Tumblr:
> 
> Rachel: beaumarbre.tumblr.com  
> Ashley: billypronto.tumblr.com


End file.
